Lord Voldemort's Christmas Carol
by Sophiax
Summary: COMPLETE! Voldemort as Scrooge? See what happens when the ghosts of Christmas past, present, and future pay the Dark Lord a visit on Christmas Eve. Featuring TinyTim!Ginny, a Malfoy family Christmas, and Arthur Weasley as Bob Cratchit, LV's clerk.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. Also, Charles Dickens' classic tale of 'A Christmas Carol' is not mine, I am merely borrowing it for a spell.

**Chapter One.**

Dolohov was dead as a door-nail. Every one of the Death Eaters knew that old Antonin had finally succumbed to his advanced age and hard living. Azkaban had taken its toll on the old man, indeed; when he keeled over with a wheezy gasp it sounded almost like relief. The body had been wrapped in black, and laid out for the other Death Eaters to pay their respects. Dolohov had been one of the first, the most loyal, to his Lord and master Voldemort.

Voldemort, aware of his old minion's death, did what any evil wizard might do at the sight of mortality: he looked over the body with glinting red eyes, shrugged, and turned away. Voldemort had nothing to worry about. As his followers rose and fell and died and then were born, Voldemort endured. He had made sure of that.

Oh! But Voldemort was the epitome of all that men had fought against. Never was there a more cold, callous, manipulative, dangerous and dictatorial soul as that of Voldemort. Feeling for others was beyond his capacity, and to the warped magical mind of the Dark Lord the world itself may as well have revolved about him. He was the insane genius, the ultimate fascist, an amoral Superman of which the Muggle philosophers would have been proud. His countenance brought a chill to all observers; Voldemort was winter and death in the personage of a white-skulled snake. His black heart pulsed with disease and hatred toward his fellow man, an infection that spread itself with words and deeds, with torture and curses.

Familiarities were forbidden with this darkest of wizards, Voldemort, who had never desired friend or lover. Even his closest followers did not dare to address him in equality, or to question his health and welfare. He had placed himself above all others, an unattainable pinnacle of ice that rained frost and logic eternal. Understanding and valuing only power, Voldemort was power's expert broker, collecting it and hoarding it close to his chest with a high laugh of hate.

So it happened that Lord Voldemort sat on a darkening Christmas Eve, quill in hand as he dictated long and specific orders to his Death Eaters, eyes narrowed in anticipation for his next war moves. The old Riddle House, appropriated as his headquarters, was damp and creaking with the chill of snow seeping in from outside. On that Eve, only Lord Voldemort's clerk remained, organising gift tributes, bribes from the Ministry of Magic, and files on Voldemort's Death Eaters. A mean fire barely glowed in the stove, coals flickering half-heartedly. Voldemort did not notice the state of the fire, just as he did not notice the cold rooms and cold weather and the fact that it was the night before Christmas.

With a snap and a bang, the door to Lord Voldemort's study burst open, bearing forth a snow-dusted Lucius Malfoy. One of the younger Death Eaters, and the one who gave the most financial support, Malfoy's appearance matched the snowy weather outside. His silken white-blonde hair was held back by a black ribbon, though some stray wisps of it flew around his pale, narrow face like spider's webs. Malfoy's nose and cheeks were reddened by the cold, giving him an unusually merry look.

Voldemort regarded Malfoy with some impatience. He noted the manic, glittering look in Lucius' grey eyes, and wondered what new disturbance would create such a look on his trusted deputy. With a wave of his white hand, Voldemort indicated for Lucius to get on with it, whatever news he bore his master.

'Good afternoon, my Lord,' Malfoy breathed, dipping to one knee in deference. 'I trust you are well.'

Voldemort's thin mouth twisted a little, unused to any form of concern from his Death Eaters. 'I am perfectly well.' The Dark Lord felt a little insulted; did he appear unwell? Who did Lucius think he was, inquiring after the immortal Lord Voldemort's health?

'And a Merry Christmas to you, sir,' Malfoy added, glancing up at Voldemort.

'Christmas! Humbug!' Voldemort said coldly and irritably. 'Merely an excuse for sappy weaklings to shirk their duty.'

'Surely, my Lord, even you must take a rest on Christmas,' Malfoy insisted with an uncharacteristic smile. 'After all, it is the only time of the year when even that old fool Dumbledore and his Order of the Phoenix take a break from their devious little schemes.'

'Precisely,' Voldemort replied testily, 'which is why I fail to understand how the rest of you can beg for Christmas to spend with your _families_. Your families! Without your servitude to me, you would all be dead. It is lucky I am so merciful.'

'Indeed, you are merciful, my Lord,' Lucius amended, sounding contrite. 'Your wisdom and beneficence are a model to us all.'

The clerk in the corner let out a snorting sound.

Voldemort dipped his quill in ink, shaking his head as he continued. 'If you possessed one ounce of foresight you might see that Christmas is the perfect time of the year to strike at Dumbledore. Instead you fritter away your time on gifts and feasts, cavorting with that wife of yours. Why you choose your wife over an opportunity to kill Muggle-lovers is a great weakness of your character, Lucius.'

'I love my wife!' Malfoy declared, sounding a little mad. 'I married her because I love her! And such a beautiful pure-blood witch she is, the perfect wife, and she even knows and loves the Dark Arts…pain is her pleasure…if only you might meet Narcissa, sir, you would see what I mean.'

'Try to stay off the spirits before visiting me,' Voldemort glared. 'And do get on with whatever business brought you here, before I am forced to teach you a lesson.'

Malfoy cleared his throat loudly. 'Well, my Lord, I came to invite you to our Christmas dinner. I think you will enjoy it, and Bellatrix and Rodolphus will be there, and there will be games...please, sir, do consider it. We would be honoured to have you.'

With a hiss, Voldemort's red eyes flared into glimmers of pure annoyance. 'Christmas! With you? I do not celebrate Christmas, nor will I ever. It is a ridiculous invention of a holiday that causes me no end of grief. It is enough that I must suffer my Death Eaters to be absent from their duties. I will not put up with frivolities at any time of the year, and especially not at Christmas. Now go, Lucius, before you regret your coming here.'

'Of course, my Lord,' Malfoy said with a tone of regret. He shrugged at the clerk. 'But Merry Christmas!' he added with a tip of his cane.

'Bah!'

'And Happy New Year!' The door clinked shut.

'Bah,' Voldemort growled again. His hairless brows furrowed into a tempered scowl. The quill scratched along, undeterred by the holiday spirit. The Dark Lord continued to strategise, his mind twisting in circles and plans, weighing and measuring and thinking out his orders, until the sky outside dimmed to heavy black. Only a few waxy witch-candles flickered on, lit by the clerk who put the last of the ledgers on a shelf with a dusty bang.

Abruptly Voldemort rose from his large desk, summoning his black cloak and sweeping it over his shoulders. 'I have to go to Gringotts,' his high voice echoed across to the clerk. 'Await me here, and do not forget to feed Nagini.'

'Of course, sir,' the clerk replied, repressing a shudder at the thought of feeding Voldemort's great snake.

Once outside, Voldemort donned an invisibility cloak over his clothes, and Apparated into Diagon Alley. It would not do for anyone to see him; even on Christmas Eve the Aurors were still about. The snow was falling in London as well as Yorkshire, and Diagon Alley was blanketed in a sparkling white layer of crystal. The street was packed with people, laughing and singing, loaded down with packages of shopping. Voldemort stomped his way through the crowd, invisible to all, sour expression hidden from the world. He despised that all these Mudbloods and Muggle-lovers could walk through the streets freely. It would not always be so, Voldemort vowed. Someday people would bow to him when he walked through the street. Holding the thought close, rolling it over his mind like a salve, Voldemort walked through the glistening doors of Gringotts Bank.

He had his own private vault, guaranteed by the goblins who were not particular about whose money they kept. Past the guarded doors, Voldemort swung off his invisibility cloak, sending goblins flying to serve whatever financial whim he had that day.

'My statements and a withdrawal of three thousand Galleons,' Voldemort ordered to Thrag, his financial agent. The withered little goblin scurried away, leaving Voldemort standing in the large marble-floored room.

Two tittering goblins entered from a side door, each carrying a stack of yellow parchment. One nudged the other, eyeing Lord Voldemort. Cautiously they approached, causing Voldemort to peer down at their pointy ears and wiry white-haired heads. If he had had a nose to wrinkle, he would have.

'Excuse me, sir,' one of the goblins said cheerfully.

'Yesss?'

'May I introduce myself, Grum, and my colleague, Lart. We are the representatives of the Poverty Fund of Gringotts Bank, a charitable division dedicated to the aiding the welfare of the poor in every country in which –'

Grum was interrupted by Voldemort's spidery hand motioning up in a stop sign. 'I have no time for this.'

'But, sir, you are the Dark Lord, I thought with your vast resources you might—'

'If you do not cease pestering me, you will experience what my title of Dark Lord really entails,' Voldemort loomed down over the goblins, his eyes narrowed and glowing. Grum and Lart looked at each other regretfully, and scooted off as Thrag reappeared with a stack of papers and a sack of Galleons.

'Your requests, sir,' Thrag said, bowing to Voldemort.

'Very well.' Voldemort took his things and waved for Thrag to leave.

'Merry Christmas, sir!' Thrag ventured.

'Bah! Why does everyone insist on muttering those words, a bromide to make their miserable lives sound better? If I hear Merry Christmas one more time, it's the Killing Curse,' Voldemort grumbled. He whipped his Invisibility Cloak on and pushed through the doors of Gringotts.

The snow had gotten deeper in the streets of London. Swirls and eddies of flakes wrapped around glowing lamp-posts, creating a festive effect. Voldemort walked back down Diagon Alley, invisible again, yet even had he been unconcealed the passers-by would have drawn from fear instead of wishing him a happy holiday. Even the animals seemed to sense the Dark Lord's presence, owls and cats and other familiars shrinking away from his wave of mean, cold energy.

With a pop Voldemort was back at his headquarters, shaking the snow off his boots as he deposited his papers onto a table in his study. The clerk was still there, sorting through a stack of parchment.

Voldemort sighed dramatically. 'I suppose you'll be wanting tomorrow off, Weasley.'

'If it's not too much of inconvenience, sir,' Arthur Weasley replied.

'Of course it's an inconvenience!' Voldemort snapped. 'And I'm supposed to pay you for a day of not working, a day away from my most important plans!' He took a breath to calm himself. It would not do to accidentally curse his best clerk. 'Fine. Just come in early the next day. I expect you to be fully caught up.'

'Yes, sir, of course,' Weasley nodded. 'And thank you; my family will be very happy to have me home tomorrow.'

'Humbug,' muttered Voldemort. 'Now leave my sight before I change my mind.'

Arthur Weasley hastened out of the office, grabbing his coat and scarf from the rack.

With a grit of his sharp teeth, Voldemort gathered a stack of papers about theoretical variations on the Unforgivable Curses for some light reading before bed. With a sweep of his wand, he set the locks on his office and walked through the house to the residential wing, footsteps echoing in the grey damp of the manor. His way was lit only by the tip of his wand, casting long shadows in the doorways and halls.

Voldemort reached the locked door to his private quarters, once again bringing his wand to the lock. The heavy wooden door was decorated with a silver Dark Mark in the centre where the knocker should be, a skull gleaming in shadow, its serpent tongue issuing forth like a profane word.

With a perfunctory glance at his Mark, Voldemort suddenly stepped back in surprise. It was difficult to tell in the dark, but it rather looked like Antonin Dolohov's head sticking out of the door, not a Dark Mark. Voldemort's red eyes regarded it; yes, it was certainly an apparition of Dolohov, morose eyes staring out of hollowed sockets, mouth slightly open in what might have been misery. Voldemort blinked once. Just as suddenly, the Dark Mark was back in its proper place, and he wondered if he was imagining things. Starting to go crazy, perhaps.

Shaking his head, Voldemort waved his wand and the door swung open. Holding his light in front of him, the door swung shut and Voldemort could not help but look back at it, half-expecting to see the back of Dolohov's head. With a sense of relief he noted the door's perfect normality, smooth wood, black hinges. Light held in front of him, just enough to see, Voldemort walked through his rooms, enjoying the dark shadows that played around him. He had always loved the darkness.

Conjuring a small fire in his stone fireplace, the Dark Lord sat in his favourite armchair and prepared to read his papers. He had heated a cup of Nagini's snake-milk, which he sipped carefully from a wooden goblet. Voldemort was always happiest in his own company, basking in his own glory. It took so much effort to charm/torture his followers, and the solitary nightly routine gave the Dark Lord's psyche a soothing stroke of self-mastery.

The clammy solitude was interrupted as a loud clang echoed throughout the room, lacking source or apparent cause, startling Voldemort into spilling his snake-milk. With a garbled curse, the Dark Lord's wand was out and he glared around his room, crimson eyes taking in every shadowed detail. Nothing seemed out of place; the wards were still intact; no one could have entered his house.

Then, another clang. Voldemort could only stare as a ghostly apparition appeared through his door, floating and yet dragging itself at once, drawing closer. By its face, the apparition was clearly that of Antonin Dolohov, deceased Death Eater, former school-mate, and loyal follower. His eyes were black pits of despair, his ethereal body thin and hunched, mouth twisted into an anguish of self-regret. It was a loathsome sight to behold for any man, and Lord Voldemort was no exception.

'Dolohov?' Voldemort whispered. 'Is it you?'

The ghost nodded. 'It is I, who you knew as Antonin Dolohov, one of your own. And yet, behold the state I am in!' Dolohov gestured around him. Indeed, the ghost was bound by thick, clanging iron shackles, chains dangling and heavy. 'Woe is me, who did not understand!'

'What brought you to this state?' Voldemort asked in a small voice, cringing back, as deep inside he feared death and all its associations. It was a cruel reminder to see a formerly alive Death Eater, so bound, and obviously miserable.

'These chains I cast myself, link by link, and I brought upon myself this misery of afterlife through which I now suffer,' Dolohov's voice wavered into Voldemort's senses, bringing a sense of imminent despair. 'I went through my life torturing, killing, maiming, and hating, and now I suffer the consequences of my ill actions, my love of power. Every burden I bear as a spirit was of my own making in the corporeal world, an unfinished business of my soul who never learned happiness.'

Voldemort stared in disbelief. What was old Dolohov speaking of, his regret for having served his Lord and master, Voldemort? Such speech would never have stood, had Dolohov been alive.

'You regret following me?' Voldemort asked, voice cold and hard. His perturbation at this appearance was substantial; he did not see why spirit-form Dolohov would bother him to recant his loyalty to the Dark side.

Dolohov, for his part, lifted one hand and pointed directly at Voldemort. 'You will regret,' he said. 'You will regret. That is what I have come here to tell you. For I cannot be saved, but there remains in you a kernel of the soul you once possessed, a tiny fragment that has not been given over to greed and gain of power. You will learn, and then you might not end up as I have, a lonely and desolate ghost wandering the earth, unable to experience those bonds of happiness which might have restored me in life. You must learn, or you will become me, bound forever by self-made prison, a meagre and small spirit.' Dolohov's chains clanked menacingly.

Voldemort stepped back, startled. This could not be, for he had taken precautions against death, many of them, and his fail-safes had proven true in the past. He started to doubt he was seeing Dolohov at all; perhaps he had fallen asleep.

'You are not real,' Voldemort declared. 'I must have taken a bad sip of snake-milk. Or a chill has given me a headache. These things you speak of are not real.'

'But they are…' Dolohov's voice was starting to fade. 'Listen well, old master, for this is important. You will be visited by three spirits yet, tonight. The first will come when the clock strikes one. The second, when the clock strikes two. The third will come on the hour of three.'

'Don't be absurd. I have the power to vanquish any wayward spirit that deigns to visit me; in fact, after your unwanted appearance I will be strengthening the wards of this house against all visitors, flesh and spirit alike.'

'It will not matter,' Dolohov shook his head sadly. 'The visitors will come, and you will learn.' Dolohov's chains creaked and clinked as he moved away, fading into darkness.

Voldemort stared at the place on the wall behind where Dolohov's ghost had been. The Dark Lord was more unnerved than he would like to admit, unused to such strict instruction from the spirit world, and rather unwilling to embark on any further adventures with bossy apparitions. He rechecked the multiple wards on his door, sent a cleaning spell towards his spilled Nagini-milk, and felt a sudden rush of fatigue from the emotional toll of conversing with a disturbing ghost.

Unable to keep his snake-lidded eyes open for a moment longer, Voldemort's long, thin legs swiftly carried him across the room, to his curtained bed, which he fell upon in fully-dressed repose. The room faded to black as sleep descended for the Dark Lord.


	2. Chapter 2

This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. Also, Charles Dickens' classic tale of 'A Christmas Carol' is not mine, I am merely borrowing it for a spell.

**Chapter Two.**

Voldemort's eyes opened with a start, their scarlet pupils focusing on the bed canopy looming over him. The room was dark and silent, oppressive in its quiet. Bringing his fingers to rub his temples, Voldemort tried to remember why he would be so listless in his sleep. A long, low 'ding' sounded, just once, shattering the silence and announcing the arrival of one o'clock.

'What was it about one o'clock?' Voldemort muttered. Then he sat up with a jerk; it had been Dolohov's ghost, right there in his room, saying a spirit would come at the toll of one! Voldemort looked around, and no spirit could be found in his chamber. Satisfied, the Dark Lord lowered himself back down, once again hoping he might sleep without disturbance.

It was not to be. A brilliant white light burst out of a place in the middle of the room, illuminating Voldemort's white skin, startling him straight out of his position of sleep. His boot-clad feet hit the floor as he watched a figure materialise out of the light.

It was a woman, to be sure; she was wearing a white tunic, long and bright, and a wreath of shiny holly was wrapped around her head. She had limp, light brown hair and a somewhat sad air about her, a defeated look on her face and rather strange eyes. She smiled at Voldemort, transfiguring her into a creature of almost-beauty, and Voldemort could not take his eyes off her.

'I am the Ghost of Christmas past,' she announced in a clear, small, almost meek tone. 'I come to remind you of what has been, for you have forgotten, Tom.'

'How do you know my name?' Voldemort croaked.

'I know many things.'

'What is the meaning of this? Perhaps I don't wish to see Christmas Past.'

'Your wishes are not relevant. You will come with me.' She extended her pale hand to Voldemort, taking his own hand within it, and suddenly Voldemort's bedchamber was gone.

In a blink and a flash, Voldemort found himself in the front hall of Hogwarts castle. It was decorated lavishly for Christmas, with garlands of pine and holly, and red and white candles floating on the air.

'What – you can't Apparate into Hogwarts! It's in Hogwarts: a History…' Voldemort protested.

'We have not Apparated. This is a memory,' the lady spirit explained.

'Ah. Like a Pensieve.'

She merely nodded. They walked along the hall to the Charms classroom, on the first floor. Gesturing for Voldemort to enter, they beheld a small, black-haired boy of about eleven. He was alone in the classroom, bent over his books, an expression of pure rapture on his young face.

'That's me!' Voldemort blurted.

'Yes,' the spirit affirmed. 'It is your first Christmas at Hogwarts, Tom Riddle.'

'I remember…' he trailed off.

The boy was going through his book at a rapid pace, turning pages and occasionally murmuring to himself. Then, another person entered the classroom: a tall, wiry man with a black beard.

'Professor Collier!' young Tom Riddle said brightly. 'I've learnt the Levitation Charm.' He demonstrated with his wand, successfully levitating the entire stack of schoolbooks.

Collier looked at the boy with fond regard. 'So you have, Mr. Riddle! Well done! You are not our star first-year pupil for nothing, I see.'

'And the Alohamora charm,' Tom bragged.

Collier chuckled with a rasping sound. 'Enough work for today. It's Christmas, after all; the feast is due to begin shortly. Why don't you run along to the Great Hall.'

Showing slight disappointment on his youthful face, Tom picked up his books and trudged out of the classroom.

'Don't worry, you can come back to it later tonight!' Collier called after the boy.

Voldemort chuckled out loud. 'I always wanted to learn more, no matter what else was happening.' The white spirit smiled at him.

Voldemort and the spirit-lady followed the diminutive boy figure down the hall and into the Great Hall of Hogwarts. The room was dressed for Christmas, with twelve grand trees towering and a feast table glittering in the middle. Several other students were already seating themselves, their tidy school robes in place, faces alight with the excitement of Christmas.

Little Tom put his books under the bench and sat down between two older boys. He looked around, his pale face expressionless, but the boy's eyes gave away his inner delight at his surroundings. When the feast got underway, table piled high with roasted meats and puddings and vegetables, Tom Riddle ate a little too fast and did not say very much during the meal. He seemed to be concentrating solely on the plate in front of him.

'It was my first Christmas where I had enough to eat,' Voldemort explained to the spirit as he watched his child self. 'And the first Christmas where I was actually glad to be where I was, at Hogwarts, my true home.' He sighed and looked around.

'Onward we must go,' the spirit said.

'Can't we stay awhile?' Voldemort asked. He wanted to remember the Great Hall as it had been in his school days; watching himself the Dark Lord could almost taste the delicious feast, though it had been many years since he enjoyed such a thing.

The spirit paid him no heed. In another blink, another flash, Voldemort saw himself now as a grown young man. He had almost forgotten what he looked like in those days, a tall and handsome man with fine features and raven-black hair, perfectly combed. The grown Tom Riddle was labouring intently over a column of figures on parchment, in the back of a dusty and dark shop.

'Borgin and Burkes,' Voldemort murmured. 'My first job.'

A back door opened and a small, nervous man appeared at Tom Riddle's shoulder. He peered over, noting the numbers, and cleared his throat. With a look of annoyance, Tom turned his face up toward the man. 'Yes, Mr. Borgin?'

'You've done enough for tonight, Tom,' Borgin said. 'It's Christmas, after all. I am sure there is somewhere for you to be.'

'I really should finish this.'

'No, I insist. I'm closing up now, and as your employer I must insist you go. Have some fun, for once, Tom.' Borgin tittered, as though the concept of fun had been alien to his own life for some time.

'Very well.' Tom sighed as he stood, stretching his arms a little, and fastening his cloak about his broad shoulders. 'I will be in early tomorrow morning.'

Voldemort and the spirit followed as Tom Riddle walked out into the snow, barely leaving a footprint through the muddy slush of the dodgy, winding passageway that was Knockturn Alley. They emerged on Diagon Alley, filled with people, children throwing snowballs, carollers making rounds, in all very similar to the Diagon Alley that Voldemort had so recently visited.

Tom Riddle kept his head down, his eyes evenly fixed in front of him, until a beautiful girl of energetic youth bounded up to him. 'Tom!' she cried, her cheeks and lips pink with the cold. Her green eyes glittered at him.

'Minnie?' Voldemort whispered.

'Minnie?' Tom Riddle said. 'Hello!'

'Happy Christmas!' Minnie peered up at him under long lashes. She was possessing of that fairness of youth, black hair to match Tom's, and an irrepressibly lively, intelligent soul. She reached out with a gloved hand to take Tom's arm. 'We're having a Christmas party. Won't you come?'

'All right,' Tom agreed readily.

Voldemort noticed that his younger self could not keep his eyes off young Minerva McGonagall.

'Good!' Minnie nodded pertly. 'You work too much anymore, Tom. I thought perhaps tonight we could ask my father…you know…'

Tom Riddle smiled down at her, his dark eyes burning intensely. 'I know,' he murmured. 'I'll ask him tonight.'

The couple walked hand-in-hand down a side alley and towards a house decorated with an enormous wreath. Strains of music echoed from the glowing golden windows, casting the silhouettes of Tom and Minerva into shadow.

The white spirit glanced at Voldemort, a secret, sad smile playing on her lips.

Voldemort could only watch as Tom pulled Minnie back from the door, for a small moment before it could be opened for greetings. Tom's head dipped down to kiss Minnie gently on the lips, and her arms wrapped around his neck in passionate response.

Voldemort tilted his own head in remembrance. She had always tasted so sweet, like a ripe flower on a Scottish hillside, that sparkle of intelligence and wit sparring with his own, ever a challenge. Now, of course, Minerva McGonagall was his mortal enemy. Voldemort would never normally remember that once they had been betrothed.

The scene blinked away again, and Voldemort felt an unfamiliar wrench of regret as the warm scene was ripped away into white blankness again.

Sitting on a bench in front of him was Minerva, again, though she looked older and more care-worn than she had. It was late afternoon in the scene, and a fresh, thick layer of snow piled around the wooden park bench upon which the woman was perched. Her dark green wool cloak was pulled tightly around her, a wool hat set atop her head, wisps of black hair falling down.

'Look,' said the spirit, pointing with her pale arm.

Minnie looked up, her green eyes watering, the flush of youth gone from her face, her cheeks hollowed and sharp. A tiny tear tickled down her cheek, as her breath frosted on the air.

'Minnie,' Voldemort said, forgetting that she could not hear or see him. He knew that he was likely the cause of her misery, and for the first time he wondered how she could have gone from the spirited, loving girl of years before, to this sad and sorrowful woman. He reached out a white hand towards her.

'You cannot change it,' the spirit said in her low voice. 'This is Christmas past.'

Voldemort looked up, startled, as he saw his own younger self, Tom Riddle, appear around the bend, wrapped in winter cloak, head down. With a feeling of distaste, Voldemort noted his own face, his handsomeness fading, skin pale and waxy, features slowly distorting themselves, eyes cold and merciless.

'Minnie,' Tom said. 'I'm sorry I'm late.'

Minerva sniffed, setting her face into strict lines. 'I'm sorry, too.'

'Work kept me,' Tom said, his voice lacking any warmth.

'It always keeps you.' Minnie looked down at her shoes, sighing. 'This can't continue, Tom. Us, I mean. Somewhere along the way, whatever care you had for me has turned back to yourself. Where once you might have had love, and warmth, now you want only power. You are obsessed with it, greedy and ruthless, and I want nothing more to do with you.'

Tom scowled. 'You don't mean that, Minnie. We're engaged.'

'We were young, and different, when that promise was made. I can keep it no more,' Minerva said, turning her head away.

'Please, Minnie, I'll make it up to you…'

'No, you won't! You always say it but you never do make it up!' Minerva wrung her gloved hands together, a gesture that seemed to give her strength. 'Leave me alone, Tom. I don't like what you have become.'

Tom Riddle glared at her for a moment, then turned on his heel and walked away. Minerva stared after him, tears that had been held back now falling freely, her head shaking in abject sorrow. With a flick of her wand, she transfigured herself into a cat, and darted away into the bushes.

'She was the only one who could ever come close to understanding my thoughts. Clever little Minnie,' Voldemort said out loud. 'I did not realise she actually cared for me so. She should not have given her heart away so easily.'

'As you did not,' the spirit said, looking at Voldemort with depressed eyes.

Voldemort felt an irritating little grain, like a pebble in his shoe, except it was in the area where he should have had a heart. He bared his teeth in displeasure; he despised such creeping little emotions as guilt (had he thought guilt?) over someone else's problem. 'Why have you shown me these things?' he implored. 'I don't want to relive this. What else could I have done?'

The spirit woman was looking at him, pity etched across her plain face. 'What?' Voldemort snarled. She just shook her head.

'We go back, now,' she instructed, holding her hand out once more. Voldemort grasped it tightly as he was yanked back to his bedchamber, standing next to the glowing woman, his red eyes still wide. 'Expect the next at the stroke of two,' she whispered.

'The next? Don't tell me there's more of this,' Voldemort gestured a little wildly with his hands.

The woman merely shrugged. 'Goodbye, Tom Riddle,' she said.

'Wait—tell me, what is your name?' Voldemort asked, as the apparition of the woman in white began to fade away.

'My name is Merope,' she said, holding both hands out to him, her image growing weaker and finally disappearing.

A feeling something like panic swept through Lord Voldemort. He reached out with his hands, but it was too late, and the spirit of his mother had departed him. 'No,' he whispered, his high voice sounding alien to his own ears. A peculiar ache washed through his chest, a squeezing pressure that would not relent.

Slowly Voldmort sat back on his bed. He felt as a small child again, helpless and lost and orphaned. It was not a pleasant feeling. He shook off the sensation, struggling to regain control of his thoughts, forcing his own memories into submission.

Looking around to re-orient himself, Voldemort saw his giant snake, Nagini, curled up by the window. Summoning her with a finger, Voldemort tried to relax, and reclined back onto his pillows with Nagini draped across the foot of his bed.

Several minutes later, he drifted off into a fitful sleep, his own mind interrupting his slumber, reality and dream fading in and out. Voldemort could no longer recall if the spirit of Merope _had_ visited him, or if his tired mind had invented the entire episode.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. Also, Charles Dickens' classic tale of 'A Christmas Carol' is not mine, I am merely borrowing it for a spell.

**Notes:** Thank you everyone who has read this story so far, I do appreciate reviews and even silent readers :-)

**Chapter Three.**

Nagini hissed next to him and Voldemort's eyes shot open when the clock dinged once, then twice. With a groan of despair, Voldemort sat up, not knowing what to anticipate in this next hour of haunting. He did not wish to meet any more spirits that night, yet he was quite certain the fates were not through with their little game.

Sure enough, a loud, pounding knock sounded on his door, urgent and commanding attention. Voldemort did not think he could ignore it, as the spirits thus far had paid no heed to his wards and locks.

'Enter,' Voldemort called from the darkness.

The door swung open and the huge frame of a man filled the doorway, shadowed by radiant light streaming in from behind. At least seven feet tall was this new apparition, clad in a dark green velvet robe trimmed with luxurious white fur, bared at the chest in decadent carelessness, beefy arms crossed in front of bearded face.

Voldemort had the bizarre thought that the man looked like a cross between that great oaf, Hagrid, and that James Potter fellow he had murdered all those years ago.

'Merry Christmas!' the figure's voice boomed into the room. 'Stand, and follow me.'

'And who are you?' Voldemort hissed, standing up in spite of himself.

'I am the Ghost of Christmas Present,' the man said.

Voldemort was beginning to see a pattern here. 'Very well, Ghost of Christmas Present. What have you to show me?'

'Come, come, see the feast that can be yours,' the ghost invited, magnanimous hand waving toward the open door. Cautiously, Voldemort stepped through his own door, into what should have been his sitting room, but was completely transformed into a fiery warm, candle-lit room piled high with an elaborate feast.

Roasted meats, fish, and fowl wafted their tempting scents into the air; heaps of potatoes and winter squash, baked leeks and hearty cauldrons of stews; fresh bread and butter and puddings of every delight adorned the tables, along with great bowls of gleaming fruit, steaming ciders, and sparkling punch. There was scarcely an empty space left in the room, for it was so filled with the cornucopia of food. It looked to be a feast for fifty people at least, fifty friends or relatives that Voldemort certainly did not have.

The room was hung with festive garlands of holly, pine, sweet-smelling flowers, and twinkling candles, the look of a joyous occasional party. Gleaming bunches of mistletoe, cheerful red berries, and glistening ivy snaked across the ceiling. It was a garden of merry-making, the very picture of holiday spirit, a manifestation of all those good wishes that man might bring to others at Christmas-time.

Voldemort peered at it all curiously. He himself had not partaken in such food in years, as he existed by snake-milk and the occasional chocolate biscuit. 'What is the purpose of this conjuration?' he sneered. 'Surely you know I have no use for it.'

'I know you have no use for it,' the ghost replied, a jovial smile still upon his shining face. He chuckled, amused. 'You have no use for human fancies, for love or comfort. But it does not matter, for the wealth of the world is open to you, and it is only you who refuses to see it.'

Voldemort did not grace the man with an answer. Instead, he stood with his arms crossed, mimicking the other's posture, waiting patiently for whatever this new ghost's whim might be.

'Come, grasp my robes,' the ghost instructed, holding out a green velvet sleeve. As Voldemort did so, the feast room disappeared and Voldemort found himself walking down the high street in a small English village, in daytime. Electric Christmas lights twinkled, and the streetlamps were hung with pine boughs. Crowds of people walked along merrily, chattering with excitement, going to and fro the grocery store and the butcher's shop, arms heaped with food for their family meals.

The good cheer was palpable, as people would bump into each other in the crowds, and what might normally have turned into an argument or short words was diffused by holiday spirit, people saying 'thank you!' and 'oh, pardon me!' and 'happy Christmas!' to one another.

'Muggles, are they?' Voldemort said with a distinct sneer in his voice.

'Some,' answered the ghost. 'Not all.' He pointed at two twin heads of flaming red hair, coming out of the butcher's shop, laughing as they concealed something in a brown bag.

'Weasleys,' observed Voldemort.

'Aye. Let's see where they go.'

Through the village they walked, breath puffing upon the air, unseen to all. The houses of the village grew sparse and finally gave way to countryside. The twin Weasleys ahead of them were horsing around, shoving each other, throwing snowballs, and snickering unnecessarily loudly. Beyond a copse of trees, Voldemort saw smoke rising, swirling up into the air, a beacon of someone's home.

He wished he could have his wand with him.

'This way,' the giant ghost said, smiling. 'We're going to drop in on the Christmas day of your clerk, Arthur Weasley.' Down a little lane and into a clearing, the Weasley house came into view. It was a crazy architectural nightmare of turrets and angles, warm light blazing from every window under the slightly darkening sky. Several outbuildings surrounded the house, along with a garden that was barely identifiable under lumps and drifts of pure white snow. The Weasley twins scampered up to the back door and disappeared inside, laughing and throwing their last snowballs as they went.

Voldemort crunched through the snow up to the window. He peered in close to the glass, knowing he could not be seen, although he could see his own snake-like visage reflecting back at him. The ghost appeared next to him, arms crossed benignly, looking in on the warm family scene with a smile on his face.

A largish woman (Mrs. Weasley, Voldemort assumed) bustled around the kitchen, surrounded by a brood of tall, strapping red-haired boys who kept getting in her way. She clapped her hands, ordering them out, and then another two or three would just come back into the kitchen, noses in the air, sniffing the makings of Christmas dinner. The table was set for eight people.

'Come,' said the ghost, gesturing toward the door. Reluctantly Voldemort followed inside, moving his tall thin frame behind the table where he would feel out of the way. He had to admit the kitchen smelled delicious, with the aromas of roasting goose, baked bread, pies and cakes wafting about Voldemort's flat nose. It almost made him hungry, something he had not been in a very long time.

Voldemort recognised Arthur Weasley, who came up behind his wife and put his arms about her, kissing her exuberantly on the cheek.

'Nearly done, is it?'

'Nearly, if you would keep your sons out of the way!' Mrs. Weasley replied, trying to sound stern but sounding amused.

'They can't help it. This is shaping up to be the best Weasley feast yet,' Arthur rubbed his hands together, looking around his kitchen with a satisfied smile.

'Mum, do need help setting the rest of the table?' a girl's voice came from the door.

Voldemort looked over, startled. A vaguely familiar girl with crutches stood in the doorframe, her flaming red hair floating around her pale, pretty face. Bright hazel eyes danced as she looked around at the progress of the meal, and she hobbled forward uneasily.

'No, Ginny, dear, I'm doing just fine,' Mrs. Weasley assured her daughter. 'Arthur? The goose is cooked, why don't you help Ginny to her seat and call the boys in?'

'Of course,' Arthur hopped over to his youngest child, carrying her to a seat directly in front of where Voldemort was standing, watching. Arthur patted her on the head and placed her crutches in a corner.

'What's wrong with her?' Voldemort asked the ghost.

'A Quidditch accident has paralysed her right leg, and caused internal damage. The Weasleys cannot afford the long term treatment at St Mungo's, so they care for her here at the Burrow. It was a messy business.'

'Will she get better?' Voldemort inquired, watching Ginny Weasley's sparkling eyes set in hollowed cheeks.

'No,' the ghost said. Voldemort looked at him, eyes wide. 'If she does not get the proper medical treatment, the internal injuries will kill her, and I see that by Christmas next, all that will be left of young Ginny's presence here will be her crutches,' the ghost pointed, 'still sitting in the corner.'

Voldemort was starting to feel a little bad. Why hadn't Arthur Weasley demanded better pay from him? How was he, Voldemort, supposed to know about this sort of thing? It really did not reflect well on the Dark Lord to have his clerk living in near-poverty. If there was one thing Voldemort did not approve of, it was bad manners, and in his view it was poor etiquette indeed to let your own employees go to rack and ruin. He saw his own guilt and swallowed heavily. 'Good spirit, tell me that she will live.'

The ghost watched him with keen brown eyes. 'Coming from you? Who would have sucked the very life out of this same girl when she was but eleven?'

Voldemort hung his head, ashamed. It was true, he now remembered, he had possessed the girl, through his old diary, and tried to kill her in Slytherin's old Chamber of Secrets. But how she had grown into a beautiful young woman! And how her life was slipping away now, to no end at all, and again Voldemort to blame for it! It was enough to make even a Dark Lord contrite in his guilt.

A pounding begun in the house, like a herd of elephants moving through, and Arthur and his five sons poured into the kitchen, exclaiming and laughing and teasing one another. They all had identical red hair, making it difficult for the uninitiated to tell them apart. The two twins, (Fred and George, one of their brothers called them) sat on either side of Ginny, poking her stomach and twirling her hair, making her laugh.

With a flourish, Mrs. Weasley pulled out the roast goose from the oven, succulent and glistening with glaze, provoking 'oohs' and 'ahhs' from her family. The boys all looked famished, with the way they eyed their dinner. The bird seemed hardly enough to feed such a large company. Arthur waved his wand and a knife began carving up the goose.

'Before we eat, we must say a toast,' Mrs. Weasley announced.

'Yes, we should,' said one of the sons.

'To our family!' suggested a younger boy, raising his glass.

'Yes, to the Weasleys!'

'But, wait, without Dad's salary, we wouldn't have this feast,' Ginny pointed out, her voice small and feminine over her brothers.

'Ginny's right,' Mr. Weasley said. 'To the Dark Lord, the founder of the feast.'

'Oh, I'd like to have him here, all right,' Mrs. Weasley grumbled, her face turning a fantastic red. 'He who would scarcely give you the day off, and with nary an extra knut to show for all your hard work.'

'Now, Molly,' Arthur pleaded, 'not on Christmas. And the children,' he motioned. 'Everyone, to the Dark Lord and his health.'

'To the Dark Lord and his health!' everyone echoed, half-heartedly.

Voldemort felt terrible now. He was reason why Ginny could not get her medical treatment, and they were toasting him? Normally he would have said such a thing was only to gain his favour, but the Weasleys had no idea he was present in the room, watching them. He was unused to selfless actions, family warmth, and gratitude for even the smallest things, all those qualities of goodness which the Weasleys exuded on this Christmas Day. And now these same good people thought him the worst of all creatures, part of the reason for their economic misery, and still they could raise their glasses to him in even partial goodwill.

Unconsciously, the Dark Lord's shoulders started to slump a little. 'I should not have been so miserly about Arthur Weasley's time off at Christmas,' he muttered.

The ghost looked at him curiously. 'Did you say something?'

'No, no, just talking to myself…' Voldemort trailed off.

Arthur Weasley was now exclaiming over the pudding, to the nodded agreement of the rest of his family. Never before had Mrs. Weasley accomplished such a fine pudding, it was said by all.

Arthur stood up, slightly red in the face and smiling benevolently. 'Well, my dear wife, my sons, and my darling daughter,' he began. 'A fine holiday it has been.'

'Yes, Merry Christmas to us all!' exclaimed one of the twins.

'And God bless us, every one,' piped Ginny's little voice at the very last.

Voldemort kept an eye on all the family as he and the spirit left the room, most particularly on little Ginny Weasley. Once outside he reached out to touch the ghost's green velvet robe, and yet again he was yanked from the warm scene and found himself in front of a familiar house: Malfoy Manor.

On the rise of a hill, overlooking the Salisbury Plain, the ring of old Stonehenge visible in the distance, the Manor commanded attention and respect to those who were able to see it. The ancient grey stones were lit by a setting sun, orange rays glinting off tall windows, slate roof peaking towards purple sky. Still this part of the countryside had seen snow, and great drifts of it gave the Manor a look of a luxury ship floating through white seas.

Even as Voldemort and the ghost stood in front of the house, the sun slipped down over the horizon, and darkness seemed to come in mere minutes, leaving the white snow as a reflective reminder of the daylight. Voldemort watched, interested, as two figures Apparated on the lawn; he recognised them as the Lestranges, Rodolphus and Bellatrix, both completely insane. They were some of his favourite Death Eaters.

'Let's follow, shall we?' the ghost indicated.

Voldemort nodded assent.

As they drew closer, Voldemort noted that Bella was not wearing her usual creepy black clothes, but had donned a rather festive long red skirt and (he blinked) a tight red knit jumper with a green Christmas tree stitched on the front. Rodolphus was wearing a tie adorned with Santa hats. Granted, the hats were perched on skulls, which Voldemort appreciated, but there was an undeniable festive air about the two of them. Bella carried a bottle of what appeared to be champagne.

The heavy carved mahogany door of the Manor swung open, a tiny house-elf scurrying out of the way for the Lestranges, golden rays of holiday cheer spilling into the twilight. Voldemort and the ghost surreptitiously followed, the ghost chuckling at the house-elf.

'Bella!' a woman's voice called joyously.

'Cissy!' Bellatrix threw her arms around a slender blonde woman. 'Happy Christmas.'

'Now, Narcissa, give your sister room to breathe,' Lucius Malfoy's amused voice drawled. The blonde woman released Bellatrix, and suddenly Voldemort understood why Lucius would choose Christmas with his wife over Death Eater mischief.

Narcissa Malfoy was beautiful in every particular. From her glossy blonde hair to her slender hands, cheeks high with colour, red bow lips, and blue eyes, she exuded a merry sense of spirit that night, the perfect hostess of the evening. She walked over to Lucius and slipped an arm through his.

'Come in, both of you. Severus is already here,' she said, winking at Bellatrix and Rodolphus.

'Snape?' Voldemort whispered. 'He's here, too?'

The ghost merely laughed.

They walked into the drawing room, where Snape was, indeed, sitting in an armchair and enjoying a glass of red wine. The normally sallow professor looked healthier than was his usual, and seemed deep in conversation with young Draco Malfoy, Lucius and Narcissa's only child. Several other assorted people stood or sat in the well-appointed room; Voldemort recognised the Parkinsons who were not Death Eaters but were sympathetic to his cause, as well as Nott and his son, Theo.

A house-elf made rounds with scrumptious sweets, and the wine glasses were kept full as the guests mingled, talked, and laughed. Voldemort wished for a moment that he could be there not as an observer, but as a participant in the festivities. Although the scene was shockingly normal, with no Muggle-torture or Dark rituals, it held a certain congenial family charm that for some reason Voldemort found nice. He trailed Lucius around the room as Lucius entered into a jolly conversation with Narcissa and Bellatrix.

'He absolutely refused to come!' Lucius laughed. 'The old man just has no use for Christmas.'

'Even I have use for Christmas,' Bella announced, a sly smile on her face.

'I don't even want to think about what you and Rodolphus exchange as gifts,' Narcissa sniffed, a smile playing on her pretty lips.

Bella laughed loudly.

'So our dear Dark Lord would not even celebrate Christmas with us, Lucius?' Narcissa pouted. 'What a lonely spirit he must be.'

'Bah, humbug, he said, when I invited him here tonight! Those were his very words!' Lucius' grey eyes twinkled merrily.

'I think it's appalling,' said Narcissa. 'Surely even someone like himself could enjoy the holiday.'

'I don't think he could,' added Bella. 'Letting loose with us is just, you know, Not Done,' she whispered conspiratorially. 'He might drink too much wine.'

The party laughed at the thought of Lord Voldemort getting tipsy. The colour in Narcissa's cheeks rose higher; Bella pressed her hands to her stomach in laughter; Lucius pressed his lips together and wiped a tear of mirth from his eye.

Voldemort was surprised to see even Bellatrix poking fun at him, but at that point he could not quite bring himself to be upset. He suppressed a crazy urge to attend their party and show them that even the Dark Lord could boogie down and have a good time.

Interrupting the laughter, Severus Snape rapped on his glass, bringing the party to silence, and he spoke, suggesting they all play a game.

'How about Yes and No?' Draco suggested.

'Good idea, nephew!' Bella approved.

'Only because you know Legilimency,' Draco accused his aunt.

'Yes and No, it is,' Lucius said. 'And no Legilimency, that's considered cheating.' He looked sharply at Bellatrix. 'The rules are thus: I will think of something, and you must guess what it is. Only questions with the answer of 'yes' and 'no' are allowed. All right…' Lucius paused. 'I have it.'

Through many questions, it was determined that Lucius was thinking of an animal, a rather disagreeable one, that went about making hissing sounds and causing general mayhem and misery, did not live in Magical Menagerie, had never been eaten by anyone, and was not a snake, a lizard, an acromantula, a bird, a basilisk, a cat, or a kneazle.

Finally, when the company was stumped and Lucius looked on the verge of hysterical laughter, Narcissa stood up suddenly.

'I know what it is!' she declared. 'I've figured it out, Lucius, I know!'

'What is it?' Lucius cried, looking expectantly at his wife.

'It's Lord Voldemort!'

The room rocked with appreciation. Some declared the answer to 'is it a snake' should have been yes, seeing the Dark Lord's strange attachment to his snake, Nagini.

Lucius rapped his own glass for attention, and the laughter gradually subsided to random giggles. 'Now, we are all supporters and followers of the Dark Lord, and that he has given us such a good time tonight, surely we should drink him a toast, wishing him well this Christmas.'

'Here, here!' Bellatrix shrieked. 'To the Dark Lord, our master and provider, our one and only, our—'

'All right, Bella!' Narcissa grinned. 'To the Dark Lord, everyone.'

Smiles were on everyone's faces as they raised their glasses. Lucius smiled. 'Merry Christmas, and Happy New Year, to our Lord Voldemort.'

Voldemort was by now feeling so a part of the holiday spirit that he almost started to give a speech in thanks for the toast. However, the spirit whipped him away from the scene at the sound of Lucius pronouncing his name.

Voldemort scowled; he would rather have liked to hear more toasts in his honour.

They were now on a clearly Muggle street, nondescript, cold and blustery and without any outward signs of the holiday. A chill blew down the street, putting one in mind of loneliness and desolation.

'There is one more thing you must see,' the Giant ghost said solemnly. He pointed at one of the boxy, cookie-cutter houses. 'In there.'

Voldemort did not like the look of the place. It possessed the kind of bland façade behind which truly bad things happen. Brown bricks, white windows, a shiny silver car in front, a mean little plastic wreath on the door as the only indication of Christmas-time. The cool daylight faded out the scene, and where the recent snowfall had looked joyous and sparkling at the Weasleys, and the Malfoys, now it just looked flat and chill.

Once inside the Muggle house, Voldemort noted a sitting room, with a large, overburdened Christmas tree with gifts piled high around it, red and green wrapping paper a clashing contrast to the muted florals of the upholstery. Whoever these people were, they clearly liked to show off their money.

He watched as a large boy bounded into the room, avarice written upon his porcine face, narrow eyes taking in the gifts. Then came an equally large blonde man, with a red nose and a bristly moustache, followed by a woman Voldemort assumed was his wife, a thin, sanctimonious-looking woman with tight lips. She seemed to be trying to smile but it looked more like a grimace.

They appeared to be the worst sort of Muggles.

'Dudders!' the mother screeched. 'Happy Christmas!'

'That's our Dudley,' the man bellowed, his round belly protruding threateningly.

The large boy, Dudley, ripped into one of his presents, then another, then another, glancing at them and then setting them aside.

The woman tilted her head back, resembling a horse about to whinny. 'Harry! Harry! Get in here this instant!' she screamed in a shrill, abrasive voice.

_Harry?_ Voldemort's mind registered.

The hulking Ghost of Christmas Present next to him straightened, crossing his arms again.

A messy head of black hair peeked around the corner, and then Harry Potter stepped fully into the room, wearing Muggle clothes five sizes too large for him, his green eyes dull behind round glasses, mouth set tight against any reaction.

Instinctively, Voldemort hissed, 'Potter!' and reached for where his wand should have been.

'No, you don't,' the ghost scolded, glaring sternly down at Voldemort. 'Watch.' He nodded toward the scene.

'Harry,' the shrill woman said, 'you get in the kitchen and cook breakfast. Get to it, and then you clean up all this gift paper.'

Harry shrugged, resigned, his face a mask of misery. Obediently he marched himself into the kitchen, where Voldemort saw him preparing a large breakfast for these already-fat people and the one wretchedly skinny woman. He realised these must be the Dursleys, Harry's Muggle relatives with whom he stayed during the holidays.

'Why isn't he at the Weasleys'? Voldemort asked the ghost. 'I have heard it said he spends holidays there.'

'He was not given permission this year,' the ghost answered. 'His aunt had a painting job in the house she wanted Harry to do, because she is too stingy to hire someone. Harry has been free labour to these people his entire life.'

Frowning, Voldemort observed as Harry cleaned up the wrapping-paper debris from his cousin, and saw there were no gifts for Harry under the tree. The Potter kid seemed upset, indeed, his eyes clouded, picking up the paper with increasing intensity.

'Harry, when you're finished there, you go on and take Dudders' things up to his room,' the big blustery man ordered.

'Yes, Uncle Vernon.'

As Harry made his way back across the room, arms piled high with discarded paper, cousin Dudley stuck out a fat foot and tripped Harry, causing him to take a hard spill across the floor, paper scattering, glasses crunching.

Dudley laughed loudly, pointing at Harry. The aunt and uncle did not even react.

Standing up, Harry's face twisted in anger, and with a loud crash, every light bulb in the room, including those on the Christmas tree, shattered and blinked out.

Voldemort nodded. 'Accidental magic,' he observed, sagely, to the ghost.

'I told you, boy, about funny business!' the man named Vernon roared, pointing at Harry with his fat finger, shaking with rage, face turning a terrible purple colour. 'I TOLD you!'

'It…it was an accident,' Harry said, not sounding very sorry. Dudley had burrowed down into the sofa, whimpering.

The wiry aunt spoke up. 'Look what you've done to our tree, Harry Potter!' she squealed. 'You've ruined Christmas! Vernon, I want you to do something.'

'Do something, I will,' Uncle Vernon Dursley growled. He shoved past his wife and grabbed Harry by the throat, appearing ready to throttle the boy, to death if necessary.

Seeing his enemy subdued, piggy Dudley took the opportunity to kick at Harry again, this time the backs of his knees, and Harry stumbled.

Voldemort did not like the looks of this. 'Now, wait just a minute, he can't treat a wizard that way…'

'But they have always treated Harry this way,' the spirit said, jovial manner gone. 'They are the 'worst sort' of Muggles.' He looked accusingly at Voldemort.

'What? It's not my fault—' Voldemort broke off. Actually, it rather _was_ his fault that Harry Potter had to live with the Dursleys.

Voldemort watched as Vernon violently dragged Harry out of the room, Harry's face now a peculiar shade of blue, and followed as Vernon threw open a door beneath the stairs and shoved Harry inside.

'You thought you would never have to live in the cupboard again, boy? Well, you thought wrong! That's right, you can stay there forever, for all we care. If you're good maybe Petunia will give you some lettuce in a day or so.' Vernon slammed the door, locking it tightly, and rubbed his hands together with satisfaction. Petunia had a cold, hard, unsympathetic look upon her narrow face, and the dreadful son Dudley looked up at his father with unabashed glee.

Voldemort looked up at the giant spirit, confused revulsion on his snake-like features. 'He's always been treated like that, you say?'

'Since he was one year old,' the spirit nodded, looking pointedly at Voldemort.

'It reminds me of myself, at the orphanage…' Voldemort whispered, and he felt something he had never felt before: pity for Harry Potter. The figure of his arch-nemesis, that brat Potter, was fading into an image of a boy remarkably like himself, Tom Riddle. 'I did not know.'

'NO! You did NOT know!' the ghost suddenly shouted, his congenial manner gone in a flash. 'You killed the boy's parents. You orphaned him. You left him to live with abusive Muggles. And still you try to kill him, to make his life miserable at every turn. I'll show you what else you've done.'

With a yank, the ghost and Voldemort whirled through many different scenes, each one worst than the next. A mother, weeping over her dead son who had been murdered by Death Eaters. A girl, orphaned and impoverished by an attack on her parents, her face disfigured by a werewolf bite. Finally, a boy with soft features and brown hair, mouth set against quivering, standing tall in a cold ward of St. Mungo's Hospital as he visited his own parents, who had been tortured into insanity and were unable to recognise their own son.

'Stop, stop it, I say!' Voldemort finally drew his long white fingers over his eyes, unable to bear any more images. He had so enjoyed his rise to power, but he had never experienced personally the aftermath of the murderous chaos he had caused. 'I wish to see no more.'

'But in your own words, there is only power,' the spirit's reasonable, warm, painful voice said. 'And these people, too weak to seek it…'

Voldemort hung his head at his own words. Yes, there was power, and he loved it, and had always despised the weak. Yet, these were mere children he had harmed, and even Dark Lords knew that children were innocent.

'Behold,' the ghost pulled open his luxurious green robe. In place of legs, to Voldemort's horror, were two small children, skeletal and starving, faces dirty, eyes dark and wide with fear, hands shivering over miserable mouths. 'Behold the result of your life. Their names are Fear and Despair. They are what you have wrought upon the world, in your lust for power, your greed for greatness. They are your wake, Lord Voldemort. They have become what you fled from, you! the small orphan boy who dared to dream himself above his station, that boy who was thin and desperate and fearful. That was you, and it remains your only legacy.'

Voldemort let out a half-cry, half-hiss, his red eyes gleaming dully. 'It's true, and I'm sorry! If what you want is an apology, you have it, cruel spirit!' In that moment he viewed himself with disgust and loathing, the Dark Lord who still had nothing to offer the world. For the first time in his life, Voldemort doubted his choices.

He barely noticed when he was deposited back in his bedchamber at his house, breathing heavily, and no sign of the jolly giant ghost remained.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling. Also, Charles Dickens' classic tale of 'A Christmas Carol' is not mine, I am merely borrowing it for a spell.

**Notes:** Enormous thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed so far!

**Chapter Four.**

Falling to his knees, Voldemort grasped his bedcurtains for support, his tired mind trying desperately to process all he had seen. For without the spirit's guidance, he would never have known the joys and sorrows happening all around him on this Christmas, and on many Christmases past. It was too much for the Dark Lord, this unwanted and unexpected rush of emotions, old wounds ripped open, sudden regrets for his life decisions.

'I can't take any more of this,' Voldemort mumbled. Nagini, still curled on his bed, raised her head curiously at her master's behaviour. 'I am the _Dark Lord_, for heaven's sake!'

He sat there, unwilling to fall back asleep, and probably unable to rest well besides.

When the clock struck three, all too soon, Voldemort raised his head, and seeing an apparition before him scrambled up in shock.

It looked like a Dementor, black tattered robes draped like dark seaweed, hood concealing the terrible face beneath, gliding across the floor towards Voldemort with grisly grace. A pervasive feeling of misery and despair followed the creature like a cloud.

Voldemort could more than see its presence; he sensed it as well, and knew that this _thing_ was no Dementor. It was a shame, for Dementors were controllable by the Dark Lord. No, whatever this new spirit was, it was something Voldemort had not encountered before, and that disturbed him greatly.

'You, I…assume, are the Ghost of Future Christmas?' Voldemort implored to the creature, trying to keep uncertainty out of his normally smooth voice.

The thing did not reply, but instead its skeleton fingers grasped the sleeve of its own robe, holding it out to Voldemort, who knew that he must touch the robe. With trepidation, he did so, and found himself standing in a very familiar place.

He was still in his bedchamber. However, there were several key differences; the bed curtains were gone, as were the window draperies; cold bright light streamed into the room, revealing a thick layer of dust. Voldemort looked around, puzzled. His gaze landed on a stretched-out figure, covered entirely by a white sheet, laying on the floor in front of the fireplace, pathetic in its loneliness. It was clearly a body, but the question was, whose?

'Spirit, who is that?' Voldemort asked. 'One of my Death Eaters, perhaps? Someone who crossed me for the last time?'

The intimidating black ghost said nothing, but merely extended its bony finger down at the corpse.

'Who is that?' Voldemort repeated, more urgently. 'Who lays dead in my self-same bedchamber, abandoned like this?'

The spirit continued to point. It was fairly clear that Voldemort was meant to pull back the sheet, revealing the identity of the body.

Voldemort's heart started racing in genuine fear. 'No,' he whispered. 'No.' His intuition was telling him who, indeed, the dead body was. But his mind rejected the thought immediately. 'Take me somewhere else!' Voldemort ordered desperately. 'I will not touch it! I will not!'

The dark ghost obliged, and Voldemort once again found himself on Diagon Alley. It was most peculiar; every person in the street seemed in a jolly mood surpassing even the previously-witnessed Christmas spirit. People were hugging and kissing, laughing with total strangers, and Voldemort saw red-and-gold flags flying from hands and buttons pinned on lapels.

Curiously, Voldemort listened in to a group of Ministry officials clustered together, men he recognised.

'No, I don't know how it happened, but it's for sure: he's dead,' said one of the men.

'When?' asked another.

'Last night, according to rumour.'

'Was Harry Potter involved?' asked a third, taking a whiff from his golden pipe. 'Seems like he would be.'

'The Aurors are mum on that subject, but I heard that it was actually something to do with a spell gone awry. Poor devil had been laying there for days, forgotten.'

'What about all the followers?' asked a ruddy-faced man with large jowls that shook when he spoke.

The other men laughed. 'They seemed relieved most of all. Pardoned by the Ministry, most of 'em,' contributed a fourth.

'Wonder if there'll be a funeral,' said the man with a pipe. 'Likely to be more of a celebration, for I'm sure we'll all agree that the monster is best off dead!'

Their laughter was loud, raucous, and to Voldemort's ears, harsh. They were clearly taking great pleasure in the misfortunate death of the mystery person.

Other people came and went; the company of Ministry men dispersed. Voldemort looked up to the spirit for clarification. The grim hand pointed onward, toward two men Voldemort knew very well: Death Eaters, they were, and from powerful pure-blood families, besides.

'Morning! How are you?' one of them asked.

'Just brilliant, today, and you?'

'Never better. So the old man finally croaked, eh? Thought it would never happen. Frankly, I'm relieved.'

'Ha! And by a misplaced spell, no less. Better for the rest of us. Anyway, cold today, isn't it?'

'Indeed. Going skating with my son, later.'

'I'm a skater, myself! Happy Christmas, then.'

'To you as well.'

The men tipped their hats at each other, the extent of their exchange over. Voldemort did not quite understand the point of listening in to these non-specific, trivial pleasantries; surely it must serve the spirit's mysterious purpose. Voldemort made himself be patient. He could not imagine who might have died to create happy feelings in both the Ministry and his Death Eaters. Dumbledore, perhaps?

He kept waiting to see the future results of his own resolution to change his life. Yes, Voldemort had to admit to himself, he was dissatisfied with what he had done. A change in tactics was necessary, a relaxation of all the torture business. Perhaps more Death Eater parties, maybe even a retreat to some wizard resort that served banana daiquiris. Voldemort nodded. He might even take it a little easier on the Potter kid.

However, he did not see his future self walking around, or engaging in his normal business of any sort. It was very odd, as he was quietly hoping to see some evidence of his change of heart in the future.

The dark phantom ghost glided along beside him, leading him into one of the more notorious back alleys of wizarding London, a place of ill repute and foul inhabitants. Witches and wizards in rags stumbled through the alley, leering and drunk, as well as several urchin-types who peered with greedy eyes toward anyone who might have a trinket worth stealing. It was a low place, indeed, and Voldemort could not imagine why the spirit would have business bringing him here.

They reached a small, dingy hole-in-the-wall shop, a place to pawn stolen goods from the looks of it. Voldemort saw a hunched wizard duck inside the shop, his arms full with a lumpy burlap bag. The phantom pointed, and reluctantly Voldemort entered the establishment.

The shop was crowded from ceiling to floor with dusty, worn, random goods, haphazardly placed. The floor was dirty and the windows grimy, creating an overall appearance of carelessness. A crafty-looking little witch skittered forward from the back room, her gnarled hands grasping for the burlap bag.

'What do we have here, Mundungus?' she cackled. 'New goods to sell?'

'Very valuable, this is,' the man named Mundungus nodded. 'Got it from the estate of…well…_you_ know.'

The witch bobbed her head slyly. 'I see, I see. And what is it?' She peeked her head inside the bag, her eyes lighting up. 'Ha! I will sell this for a good price, indeed. Fine specimen.'

'Was a right free-for-all,' Mundungus huffed gleefully. 'No one to supervise, no one seemed to care.'

'Good,' the woman laughed nastily. 'I know just what to do with this.' She gingerly took the burlap sack, patting it. Voldemort noticed that whatever was inside the bag was moving, just a little.

'You have a buyer, then?'

'Oh, yes. Snake meat is a rare delicacy these days; I reckon I'll get at least thirty Galleons for it.'

_Snake meat?_ Voldemort thought. The package must be a rather sizable snake, then.

'And this one is the largest snake I've seen in years,' added Mundungus. 'I've got to be getting back and around; there're at least a hundred Galleons' worth of stuff be found, still. You can expect me back soon, my fair shopkeeper, laden down with new wares for selling!'

The woman tittered with laughter. 'Ha, ha! Cheers to the plunder!' she waved.

Voldemort watched as the woman muttered things to herself, adding and subtracting figures over the poor lump of a trapped snake, who he could now see was trying to wriggle its way out of the bag. The witch noticed its motions, and took a large brass candlestick and thumped it, hard.

The snake let out a hiss of extreme pain, and flopped around.

'Now wait just a minute!' Voldemort burst forth in a half-snarl, half-gasp. He was concerned for the creature; he had always held a soft spot for snakes.

Of course, the woman did not hear him. But to Voldemort's shock, he saw the weak flick of the snake's scales as it gave a last valiant try to open the bag. He recognised the snake's unique pattern.

'Nagini!' Voldemort shouted, lunging for the bag. 'Nagini! I'm here!' He looked up at the black spirit, his face pleading. 'Please, do something. It can't be my Nagini, she is in danger!'

The spirit was ominously silent.

Voldemort felt waves of alarm pounding through him. If he did not do something, Nagini would be eaten! His darling Nagini, his pet, his friend, of whom he was so fond. And how had she been kidnapped from his house, right under his nose? Voldemort vowed to track down that Mundungus character as soon as possible. He would not have his reptilian pride and joy taken from him, and consumed by unappreciative restaurant-goers. Poor, dear, Nagini. Voldemort felt her pain as though it was his own. He hated to admit it to himself, but he really was on the brink of tears with helplessness.

Collecting himself, Voldemort stood to gaze at the shrouded ghost. 'Please, spirit, I realise you have not spoken to me yet, and I do not expect you to now. But I beg you, show me an indication that this future – ' he gestured to Nagini, ' – might be changed.'

The spirit showed no sign of sympathy. Instead, it pointed onward, silent as Death, unable or unwilling to offer comfort.

Voldemort was feeling very morose now. Somehow, all of these terrible future events were connected to the death he had witnessed, the corpse in his own chambers. The inevitable truth was getting closer; Voldemort was finding it difficult to push back the obvious conclusion. It was his personal worst nightmare, that others would dismiss death so readily, laughing over it, feeling nothing but mild curiosity as to its machinations, scavengers scrabbling over the last possessions of a dead man who had not a true friend in the world.

In one last desperate mental plea, Voldemort prayed that it was not the aftermath of his _own_ future death he was witnessing, despite the positive evidence.

'Show me at least someone with feeling over this…this unfortunate person's death,' Voldemort commanded. 'Someone who has been affected with more than disinterest, curiosity, or greed.'

Onward they went, and Voldemort recognised the Weasleys' house yet again. He strode up to the kitchen door and entered, stopping abruptly when he gazed upon the sad scene.

Molly Weasley and several of her sons were gathered around the fire, reading from a book. Each looked depressed and thin, faces drawn into a pathetic attempt at good cheer.

'Where is Father, do you think?' asked one of the boys.

'He was been slow to come home, these past few days,' Mrs. Weasley observed. 'Do not think of it; we all know he has been hit the hardest by our loss.'

Several moments passed, as each family member took turns reading from the book. Voldemort recognised its text as 'Christmas Eve with Elves: the True Story of the Great Wizard Kringle,' by Bobbin Bangladesh. Their voices were quiet and subdued, and there was no cheer to be found in any of them.

With a quiet 'clink,' the front door opened and closed. Arthur Weasley had arrived home, and took off his hat with the movements of an elderly person. His worn spirit had slumped his shoulders and aged his face prematurely.

'Arthur, dear, welcome home,' Mrs. Weasley got up and gave her husband a quick embrace. 'You're just in time for the reading. Here, have some tea.' She bustled to bring him a cup of rejuvenating liquid.

Arthur sat on the sofa, gazing on his sons, his face betraying both pride and sorrow.

'Don't think of it, father,' said one of the boys. 'Don't dwell on what has happened. You still have us.'

'Yes, I still have you.' The poor man gratefully accepted the tea from his wife. 'But I cannot help but think, how dear Ginny loved Christmas so.'

'I wish she was here,' said another of the sons; one of the identical twins, Voldemort recognised.

Mrs. Weasley had started to cry, silently.

'We should be happy,' said a voice, appearing from the kitchen. Mrs. Weasley glanced up.

'Oh, Ron, we are! It's just that…' she could not continue.

The boy Ron looked glum, in spite of his declaration. 'Ginny would not have wanted us to spend Christmas like this.'

'Now, Ron's right, everyone. If Ginny were here, she would want us to be merry, like the Weasleys we are!' Arthur Weasley seemed to be gathering his strength as he spoke. 'Let us remember your sister,' he nodded at his sons, 'and our daughter,' he gazed at his wife, 'with good cheer. Let us never fight or have enmity between us, in her memory.'

'Here, here!' the twins echoed, their faces finally smiling.

Molly Weasley joined in. 'And let us be grateful for Arthur's employer, and that he made such a generous arrangement for him, now that…well, you know.'

'Yes, indeed,' Arthur said. 'Things are looking up.' He took a sip of tea from the chipped cup.

Voldemort was looking around with increasing trepidation. 'What's happening?' he murmured. 'And where is the girl, Ginny?'

The spectre raised its fingers once again. Voldemort followed its gaze, to the corner of the cosy little sitting room, where, all alone in the corner, stood a pair of crutches. They were abandoned, their owner long-gone.

'Spirit?' Voldemort asked. But he knew what he was seeing. Pretty Ginny Weasley had died, after all, and the light had gone out of the Weasley household.

Voldemort sighed. It was overwhelming, what might happen in the future, the misery that was to come. 'Ghost, I sense that our time together is drawing to a close. But first, I must ask something of you: take me to my own place of abode. Let me see what has become of me.'

Instantly he was in another place, very familiar, yet again. The hulking shadow of a yew tree loomed in front of him. Gravestones rose out of the ground in orderly rows, covered with white snow. He was in the graveyard of Little Hangleton.

'Uh oh,' Voldemort said.

The black ghost glided through the headstones, pausing at one, its gruesome finger extending down to point at it.

Voldemort approached, hesitatingly, fear in his heart. Suddenly the shape and manner of the Ghost of Christmas Future took on a new, ghastly meaning. It was all clicking together in his sharp mind, the body, the conversations, poor Nagini's fate, and now this.

'Before I look upon the grave, spirit, tell me…is this the vision of things that _will_ be, or the vision of things that _may_ be, if a new path is not forged?'

There was no response.

'If things keep going the way they have been, perhaps this will happen,' Voldemort persisted. 'But surely the future is not set in stone; surely its course can be altered by a true change of heart!'

The spirit was unmoved.

Slowly, Voldemort crept toward the grave marker, quaking, trembling, every part of him resisting the sight, but he could no longer delay knowledge. He saw the open grave, ready for its body, and the stone, upon which was carved his own name: Tom Marvolo Riddle.

The realisation was difficult to take. 'It was me! The body in my chambers! Tell me it isn't so!'

The spirit stayed pointing at the grave, and then with terrible purpose raised its finger to point straight at Voldemort.

'No!' Voldemort nearly sobbed. 'No! It cannot be so, I am great! I am Lord Voldemort! And I will change! I am not the wizard I once was. I have changed. After this night, everything will be different. So why do you show me this cruel sight, if I am truly beyond all redemption?'

For the first time, the spirit showed a reaction as the pointing hand appeared to quaver.

'Please, good spirit, if your purpose is to help me, then assure me that I might amend this terrible future, by changing myself and my ways. Tell me that there is hope.'

The hand shook more noticeably now.

'I promise,' Voldemort placed his hand over his heart, 'that I will honour the spirit of Christmas, all year round, from now on. I will not forget the lessons of this night. I will find another way to achieve my goals, I will not longer shut out the warmth of the world. I vow to you, now!' Holding up his hands in his last entreaty, Voldemort watched as the phantom's hood and robes collapsed, shrunk, and turned into his own bedpost.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling. Also, Charles Dickens' classic tale of 'A Christmas Carol' is not mine, I am merely borrowing it for a spell.

**Notes:** Thank you SO much to my readers! Reviews are very much appreciated, as well:) Now, this chapter is where it gets a little crazy…remember how Scrooge acts at the end of A Christmas Carol, and you'll understand why. Hope you all enjoy this last instalment of Voldie's tale. And to everyone, a very Merry Christmas!

**Chapter Five.**

With an awesome sense of relief, Voldemort saw his own bedpost, his own bed, his own room. Nagini was curled up, safe and sound. What was more, the deathly Spirit was completely gone! He had time now, his own life, and he was free to change his course as he wished.

Voldemort jumped to his feet from the floor and raised his arms in triumph. 'I remember it all! I am a changed man!' He hopped over to Nagini, petting her tenderly, causing the great snake to hiss in contentment. 'Yes, dear Nagini, your master is a new person this Christmas. I will keep the Spirit of Christmas within me, as long as I live! Oh, thank you, Antonin Dolohov, for bringing to me these valuable lessons. I am overcome!'

The white face of Voldemort was now flushed with happiness, his face wet with tears from his pleadings with the last deathly spirit.

With a sense of purpose, Voldemort pulled out his best black dress robes from his wardrobe, and immediately transfigured them to a festive red and green plaid. He had a terrific time putting little shiny gold buttons on them, his white hands flashing in happy industry. Finishing the robes, Voldemort leapt up and danced around the room.

'I don't know what to do with myself!' the Dark Lord laughed, hysterically, emotionally. 'I am giddy as a school-boy, jolly as a green giant, happy as a clam!'

Nagini stared at him, unsure what to make of all of it.

'A Merry Christmas to you, Nagini! A Merry Christmas to all! And a Happy New Year,' Voldemort declared, 'to all the world, a happy holiday!' He collapsed in his armchair, exhausted but not finished yet. With a flick of his wand, his heavy curtains flew open, revealing a sunny, cold, brilliant Christmas Day.

Inspired, Voldemort dashed over and opened his window. 'Merry Christmas!' he shouted, at no one in particular. Of course, the headquarters of the Dark Lord was well isolated from Muggles and wizards alike. But he did not notice; instead, he laughed again, a great, hearty laugh, clear and happy.

'Must get ready,' Voldemort nodded to himself. 'Ready for this glorious, wonderful day!'

In a house in Little Whinging, Surrey, Harry Potter was having a devil of a time with his scar, which looked to be dancing a little jig right on his forehead.

Voldemort dressed in his new garish Christmas robes. He rather hoped that Bellatrix would throw him a compliment, when she saw them.

He Apparated to Diagon Alley, this time without his invisibility cloak. People all around gasped and drew back from him, but Voldemort didn't mind. Instead, he grinned at everyone he saw, shouting out holiday greetings, his red eyes glowing wildly like Christmas tree ornaments gone amuck.

When he started skipping, people started running. Several cameras flashed as reporters from the Daily Prophet got wind of the new change in the Dark Lord's mood. Stopping, breathless, in front of a shop window, Voldemort pointed to a great turkey on display, and grabbed a young boy who was passing by.

'You, boy! Merry Christmas!' Voldemort grinned.

The boy looked like he was going to pass out from fear.

'Say,' Voldemort continued. 'If I give you twenty Galleons, will you make sure to buy this turkey and have it delivered it to Mr. Arthur Weasley, at the Burrow, Ottery St. Catchpole, right away?' To prove himself, Voldemort grabbed the coins and held them out to the boy.

'Uh, uh, I suppose so, sir,' the boy stammered.

'That's a good fellow! Now, here you are, and keep the rest of the Galleons for yourself.'

The boy took the money with a white face and a frantic nod.

'Don't let down the Dark Lord, now.' Voldemort shook his finger at the kid. 'If you do, I'll know about it.'

The boy whimpered and dashed into the shop.

'It's sent to the Weasleys', and they'll have no idea who sent it!' Voldemort whispered to himself, rubbing hands together with glee. 'Oh, what fun!'

He dashed to Gringotts Bank, where he demanded to see Grum and Lart, the goblins of the charity division.

'See here, Grum,' Voldemort said, and spoke with an undertone to Grum's ear.

'I say, my Lord! Are you quite serious?' Grum's goblin face was transformed into a little ball of happiness.

'Indeed, I am! Think nothing of it! And not a Knut less than that, mind you.'

'My dear sir, I don't know what to say…' Grum looked baffled and ecstatic all at once. He wrote a number on his stack of parchment and showed it to Lart, who fainted.

'Just promise you both will say your greetings to me, when I visit the bank. Do you promise?' Voldemort asked.

'Of course, my Lord! Indeed, we will.' And it was clear that Grum meant every word of it.

With joyful purpose, Voldemort then went across the street to Eylops Owl Emporium, picked out their best owl, and scrawled a note to Arthur Weasley, instructing: _For the girl's medical expenses._ He left the note unsigned but attached a large bag of Galleons, enough, he was certain, for the necessary treatment at St. Mungo's to heal Ginny Weasley.

Sending the owl off, Voldemort realised he had one more errand to run that day. With a pop, he Apparated to the same bleak Muggle street he had seen the night before. He strode along, bald head shining in the sunlight, plaid robes festive and clashing…and stopped at Number Four, Privet Drive.

Brandishing his wand, Voldemort opened the door and stepped inside the nondescript house. He was quite certain that magical alarms were going off for Dumbledore and the Aurors, but it mattered not. This would only take a moment.

Voldemort strode into the living room where, as he predicted, the Dursleys were having their Christmas morning. Petunia Dursley shrieked and dropped her cup of tea, the ceramic shattering on the floor. Vernon was speechless, his great mouth flapping and stuttering. Dudley looked to have a bit of a stain on the front of his trousers.

'Where's Potter?' Voldemort ordered in his most intimidating, cold, voice.

The tubby uncle, Vernon, pointed around Voldemort's tall figure toward the cupboard beneath the stairs.

'_Alohamora,_' Voldemort thought in his head. The door broke apart, and Harry Potter emerged, ashen-faced, as he beheld his worst enemy, in kitschy Christmas robes, standing in the front hall.

'Potter,' Voldemort said. He smiled, causing Harry's face to turn completely grey. 'Get your things,' he instructed.

Harry did not move.

'Go on, then! Oh, and Merry Christmas!' Voldemort said.

With a look of complete disbelief on his face, Harry scrambled up the stairs. In the awkward silence, Voldemort looked back into the sitting room toward the Dursleys, who were huddled together, terrified. Voldemort rocked on his heels casually, whistling a little tune, waiting for Harry to reappear.

With a thud and a crash, Harry Potter came back down the stairs, his wand pointed straight at Voldemort's heart.

'What is the meaning of this?' Harry asked, trying to sound strong.

'Now, Potter. You know as well as I do that our wands cannot do battle against one another; they share the same core. I honestly don't know what you're so worried about. Now, fetch your trunk; I'm taking you away from these Muggles.'

Harry did not move.

'Just trust me, Potter! I'm a changed man today! It's Christmas; we have a truce on Christmas.'

His green eyes confused, Harry looked like he was trying to decide if Voldemort was tricking him or had simply gone bonkers. He decided upon the latter, and levitated his trunk down the stairs.

Voldemort grabbed the boy's elbow, and with one last look at the Dursleys, they Apparated onto the country lane leading to the Burrow.

Harry looked about, mistrustful, befuddled. Voldemort gestured with his white hand toward the Weasley home.

'This is where you wanted to be, isn't it?' Voldemort asked.

'Yes,' Harry said.

'Well, go on, then. And a Happy New Year to you!' Voldemort bobbed his head up and down, pleased that the Potter boy was away from those dreadful Muggles.

'Uh, thanks?' Harry looked unsure of himself.

'Think nothing of it! Just one wizard helping out another, on Christmas!'

'Um, Merry Christmas, then.' Harry forced a smile on his face.

'Bye-bye!' Voldemort raised his fingers in a gesture of salute, and Disapparated.

And for all that Christmas Day, Voldemort went about wizarding Britain, doing good deeds, trying to rectify his past mistakes. He dropped in on many of his Death Eaters personally, to wish them happy holidays, and although most drew back cringing at the sight of their master (it normally meant a 'Crucio' or two) they soon saw the Dark Lord's high spirits and Voldemort spent a good day indeed chatting over tea and brandy.

When night fell, Voldemort embarked on his last visit of that fine day, that day of rebirth, rejoicing, and holiday tartan. With a spring in his step, Voldemort walked up to the great carved door of Malfoy Manor. He rang the bell, hands together in anticipation, his heart singing.

It was Bellatrix who opened the door, Bellatrix who screamed, 'Master!' and threw herself at his feet, hugging his robes.

'Happy Christmas, Bella!' Voldemort said.

She looked up at him, wild dark eyes shining with fealty. 'And to you, my Lord! And I _love_ your robes!'

'Why, thank you!' Voldemort felt so full of good cheer he was fit to burst. 'Rodolphus, my good man! A merry holiday to you!' he called out to Bellatrix's husband, who had appeared, and also flung himself down before Voldemort.

Sweeping into the hall, Voldemort bowed to Narcissa, who came in from the parlour. Her blue eyes went wide with surprise, and her hand fluttered to her heart, when Voldemort gave his greetings.

'My- my Lord Voldemort! Why, bless my soul! You have come here for Christmas? Can it be true? Lucius, come and see!' Narcissa called with delight.

It was a merry, happy time indeed, and Voldemort felt wholly at home amongst his Death Eaters, his true family. Games were played, the feast was fit for kings, and Voldemort had the heartiest, most satisfactory good time he could remember. He even fondly patted the house-elves on their heads, so full was he of good will toward all creatures. He proved his spirit that Christmas, and all the Christmases thereafter.

Voldemort was better than his word to the last grim Spirit. He gave generously to many causes (especially that of the orphans, such as himself) and although his politics did not change, he did give Harry Potter a break now and then. Even to the wizarding community at large, Voldemort became a benefactor, and gained many followers by changing his ways to strictly legal Ministry politics. To Ginny Weasley, who did not die, Voldemort made amends for trying to kill her when she was eleven, and even tutored her in Defence Against the Dark Arts. He also tried, unsuccessfully, to set the girl up with Draco Malfoy (Potter had been rather upset with him for that) and Voldemort had concluded with a jovial shrug that matchmaking was probably not his forte. Some people laughed at the idea of a Dark Lord turning to such good hearted ways, but their laughter did not bother Voldemort in the slightest.

He had no further contact with the spirits of Christmas, but from then on lived on the principals of good cheer toward wizards all around. The Dark Lord had laughter and happiness in his heart, and for the first time kept the meaning of Christmas, as indeed should be rightly said of all of us! And so, as Tiny Ginny observed, God Bless Us, Every One!

The End.


End file.
